The Bicycle Spy

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  The Germans had invaded the Free Zone about two weeks ago. Marcel’s father had sent him to his aunt’s with bread several times since then. He’d never thought anything of it. He’d been delivering bread for them since he was eight or nine. But in the past, he had only gone once a month or so. Going multiple times in only two weeks was way more than usual.

  The trips he had made recently must have been about more than just delivering bread or pastries. Much more. He must have been carrying notes that were part of an effort to undermine the Germans! Maybe there had been a note in the bread he’d brought to Madame Trottier this morning. And maybe this explained his mother’s anxious looks and her sharp voice.

  Even though he was sitting down, Marcel’s heart was beating very fast and his cheeks felt uncomfortably hot. He tried to put the pieces together in a way that added up to a different answer, but he could not. His father had written this strange note and, without telling him it was inside the loaf of bread, given it to him to deliver to his aunt or his uncle. The delivery had seemed urgent, too. There was only one explanation that made sense: Marcel’s father—and no doubt his mother, too—were full-fledged members of the French Resistance.

  The rest of the ride was a blur. To think that his parents were secretly working against the Germans! They must be braver than he had thought! But if they were caught … he could not even let himself imagine it. As he pedaled furiously, adrenaline making him fly, his mind jumped back and forth between pride and terror. In the end, pride won out. His father and mother were doing the right thing. The noble, courageous, and yes, even heroic thing. And so were his aunt and uncle. He would not say a word about what he knew, but he would keep making the trips whenever his father or mother asked. That way, it was like he was part of the Resistance, too.

  Just before he reached the town, he suddenly remembered the bread with the note had been cut open and partially eaten. How would he conceal the note now? It was essential that he deliver it—he knew that. But he did not want to reveal that he was aware of what was going on. If he did, he was pretty sure his father would not let him make the trips anymore.

  He got off the bike and paced around it a couple of times. Think! he commanded himself. Think hard. He dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket, hoping something he found inside would inspire him. There was only the penknife, a few marbles, a ten-centimes coin, and a book of matches. How could any of these things help? Wait—he had an idea. But could he make it work?

  First he took the partially eaten loaf out of the parcel. He had to get rid of it, so he ate another chunk, then crumbled the rest into tiny pieces that he scattered in the woods. He’d been taught not to waste food but he told himself it wasn’t really being wasted. There were so many birds that would swoop down and make off with the crumbs.

  When that was done, he looked at the remaining loaf of bread. His aunt and uncle would be expecting to find the note inside it. How could he get it in there? This was the second part of his idea. It was kind of crazy, but it was all he could come up with on the spot.

  Using his penknife again, he made a small, careful slit in the bottom of the loaf and slid the refolded note inside. Then he used the matches to scorch the bread around where he had cut it. After a few minutes, the bottom of the bread turned black, and the slit he made was fully concealed. Now the loaf just looked like it had been in the oven too long. He rewrapped it in the cloth and pedaled the rest of the way, until he reached the cottage of his aunt and uncle.

  “Bonjour,” said Marie Pierre, wiping her hands on her apron as she came out to greet him. She kissed him lightly on both cheeks and ruffled his already messy hair. “I think you grew.”

  “I wish.” Marcel stood as straight as he could in an effort to look taller.

  “No, really, you did.” She smiled and then turned as her husband came out of the house.

  Uncle Benoit shook his hand and then asked, “What did you bring us today, Marcel?”

  Marcel couldn’t face his uncle as he handed him the parcel, so he looked down and studied the pebbles on the ground.

  Uncle Benoit took the bread. “Just one loaf?”

  “Just one.” Marcel nearly choked on the words.

  But then his uncle said, “Fine. We’ll have it tomorrow morning.”

  Marcel nodded, relieved that he would not have to see his uncle open the package of bread. If he did, the burned bottom might arouse his curiosity and lead to more questions.

  His aunt wanted him to come inside for a while but Marcel was anxious to go home. Fortunately, he had a ready excuse. “I have a lot of homework,” he said. “I should be getting back.”

  “Of course you should,” Uncle Benoit said. “School is very important. Are you studying world history?”

  “Yes,” Marcel said.

  “Good. Every boy should know something about history. What about current events?”

  “Not so much.”

  “He doesn’t need to do that in school,” said Marie Pierre. “All he has to do is open the newspaper or turn on the radio. You can’t get away from the current scene, can you?”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Uncle Benoit. His deep sigh made Marcel feel afraid, especially when he thought about the note his uncle would soon find.

  After more kisses and a hug from Aunt Marie Pierre, Marcel got back on his bike. He was not lying about his schoolwork and he really did want to get home so he’d be able to finish it. His teacher, Mademoiselle Babineaux, was pretty nice, but she was also strict. She wouldn’t like it if he showed up with an incomplete assignment.

  Soon he was back at the bridge, and there was the soldier to whom he’d given the pain d’épice. The soldier saw him, too, but instead of calling out for Marcel to stop, he just raised his hand in a sort of greeting. Marcel rode slowly by, in case the soldier changed his mind. But he did not. His father had been right—offering a sweet treat had definitely changed the soldier’s attitude.

  When he got home, his father was in the bakery and his mother was upstairs, preparing dinner. But when the meal was ready and on the table, Marcel didn’t want it. He’d already eaten that bread on the ride to his aunt and uncle’s house. And anyway, his stomach twisted with what he now knew about his parents.

  “You’re not eating,” his mother observed.

  “It’s just that I’m thinking about school tomorrow.”

  “Is there a problem?” asked his mother. “Have you finished your homework? You don’t want to leave it all to the last minute.”

  Marcel tried not to show his annoyance. She always said that. “Yes,” he said. “It’s all done. That’s not it.”

  “Then what?” his father asked.

  Marcel hesitated. He wanted to say something about the note he had found. But to put it into words made it all the more real. And all the more frightening.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “May I be excused?”

  Back in his room, he arranged his notebooks, pencils, pens, and other supplies in a neat pile on his desk, just like he did every night before school. Maybe if he acted like everything was normal it would be. But deep inside, Marcel knew that things were not normal in Aucoin, and were not likely to be for some time.

  Early the next morning, Marcel pedaled off to the three-story brick schoolhouse that was three streets down from the church. He had gone here since he was a little kid, and this was where he would stay until he graduated next year. He knew the long corridors with their highly waxed floors and the classrooms with their rows of slanted wooden desks, chalkboards, and big windows as well as he knew the rooms in his own apartment.

  The day was unexpectedly warm, and he stopped to unbutton his jacket. Under it he had on a white shirt tucked into dark blue knee pants, and he wore matching dark blue knee socks. Then he slung his satchel back over his shoulder and checked that his tin lunch box was in the bicycle’s basket.

  On his way, he spotted a couple of older boys on a corner. One called out to him, “Hey, shrimp!”

  �
��Are you getting shorter?” yelled the other. Then they both began to laugh as they walked away.

  Marcel felt his cheeks getting hot but he said nothing. When he heard his name called out, he tensed. Were they coming back to torment him some more?

  But no. He turned to see his friends Guillaume and Arnaud waving him over. He got off the bike and locked it on the rack before going to join them.

  “Ça va?” said Guillaume. How’s it going?

  “Ça va,” Marcel said. It’s going fine. Much as he wanted to, he was not telling anyone, not even his good friends, about his parents and the Resistance. It was too dangerous to talk about. Resistance members who were caught were interrogated and sent to prison. Or worse—they might even be shot.

  “I saw you riding the other day. How’s your speed?” Arnaud asked.

  “Getting better every day,” Marcel said. “How about you?”

  Arnaud liked racing, too, and sometimes they raced each other. Arnaud was taller, with longer legs, so he often won. But Marcel was scrappy and fearless on the bike. He’d keep on riding through conditions—mud, rocks, ditches, ice—that would make many boys turn back.

  “How about a race after school today?” asked Arnaud. “We’ll go to the road behind St. Vincent de Paul that leads out of town.”

  “You’re on!” Marcel hoisted his satchel over his shoulder and headed into the classroom. “We’ll see who’s the best rider.”

  Once Marcel got settled at his desk, he felt less anxious. At least there were no soldiers in school. All that was taking place somewhere else, somewhere outside these walls. Here in the schoolroom, with neat rows of wooden desks, its big map of France in the back of the room, and its black chalkboard in the front, everything was familiar and safe. The faces around him were faces he’d known for years. Even Mademoiselle Babineaux was someone he knew. She’d been coming to the bakery every Saturday for as long as he could remember.

  But as he looked around the room, he saw that there was one girl he did not know—though he recognized her. It was the girl he’d seen in the street, the one whose cat he’d nearly run over. Today she wore a red-and-black-plaid dress with a white collar, and her braids were neat and shiny.

  “I heard she’s from up north somewhere. Maybe Paris,” whispered Guillaume, who sat beside him and must have seen him staring. “Her family just moved here.”

  Ever since the Occupation, their little town had started attracting newcomers. Some settled in, while others were just passing through. Which would it be for the new girl?

  “What’s her name?” Marcel asked.

  “Delphine something or other,” said Guillaume.

  “And why did her family come now, in the middle of the term?”

  Guillaume shrugged. “How would I know? Anyway, why are you so interested?”

  “No special reason,” said Marcel. He hoped he wasn’t turning red.

  “Boys!” said Mademoiselle Babineaux. “Stop your chattering and pay attention.”

  “Yes, mademoiselle,” said Marcel. He said nothing more to Guillaume, but all morning long, he continued to watch the new girl. When Mademoiselle Babineaux taught the geometry lesson, Delphine’s hand shot up every time; every time she got the answer right. When she wrote at the blackboard, her penmanship was perfect. During the literature portion of the lessons, she recited a poem by Pierre de Ronsard from memory. “Très bien,” purred Mademoiselle Babineaux.

  The only place she seemed to falter was when Sister Bernadette came in to instruct them in religion. The new girl did not raise her hand, and when she was called on, she gave the wrong answer. Some of the other kids snickered softly. At first Marcel was glad to find out that she wasn’t so perfect, but when he saw her go pink with embarrassment, he felt sorry for her more than anything else. He knew what it was like to be teased and laughed at, too.

  At recess, he saw her talking to some of the other girls, including Paulette, who thought she was the smartest girl in the school, if not the whole world. But why was he thinking about her so much?

  He deliberately ignored the new girl and sat down to a game of chess with Arnaud, who had brought a small board from home. Chess was very popular and they did this almost every day at recess. Marcel wasn’t such a good player but he was trying to get better. His father had even gotten him a book that outlined all kinds of strategies for winning.

  Once Arnaud set up the board and arranged the pieces, the game began. Arnaud was a good player, moving his rook, his knight, and even his queen with a boldness that Marcel lacked. Still, he studied the board carefully and tried to ignore the comments from some of the other boys as they gathered around to watch.

  “Quiet!” ordered Arnaud. “If you guys can’t shut up, you’ll have to leave. Chess is serious business. You have to concentrate, not blab.” The boys quieted down and the game continued.

  Last time they played, Arnaud had won. Today, Marcel was determined to be the winner. But Arnaud’s aggressive style undermined his confidence, and he watched, miserably, as Arnaud swept piece after piece off the board. Finally, Arnaud proclaimed, “Checkmate!” and the game was over. “Loser, loser!” chanted Arnaud as he put the pieces away in a drawstring cloth bag.

  Marcel said nothing. They were good friends but that didn’t stop them from competing with each other about pretty much everything. Marcel knew that if he’d won, he probably would have taunted Arnaud in exactly the same way.

  Later, when the bell rang for lunch, Marcel decided to avoid Arnaud entirely. He didn’t want to hear him crow about his victory all through the break. So instead, he found himself focusing again on Delphine, this time as she stood in the lunchroom, looking around uncertainly. None of the girls she had been talking to at recess seemed to have invited her to sit down, so she took a seat at a table by herself. He followed her. “Can I sit here?” he asked.

  She looked up, her blue eyes interested and curious. “You’re the boy with the bike. You almost ran over my cat.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” said Marcel. “Anyway, you told me the cat was fine.”

  “She is.”

  “I’m Marcel Christophe,” he said as he sat down.

  “Delphine Gilette,” she answered. She reached into a cloth sack and pulled out a sliced baguette layered with cheese.

  “You’re new here.” He opened his lunch box. His meal was very similar to hers: baguette with ham, and a few cornichons—tiny, tangy pickles.

  “We just moved here,” she said.

  “From where?” he asked.

  “Oh, different places … ” She seemed reluctant to talk about where she had lived.

  “Someone said you came from Paris,” Marcel ventured.

  “Well, we did, but that was before—” She stopped herself.

  “I’ve never been to Paris,” said Marcel. “What’s it like?”

  Her blue eyes brightened. “Paris is the most wonderful city in the world,” she said. “We have everything: the Louvre, the Jardin du Luxembourg, the Métro—”

  Marcel knew she was talking about a famous museum, a public garden, and a subway system. But he’d never seen any of those places except in photographs.

  “I guess you were sorry to leave,” Marcel said as he crunched on a tasty cornichon. It had been hard to get these pickles lately. His mother must have stashed a jar away.

  Delphine gave him a shrewd look and took a bite of her baguette. “Yes and no. I love Paris. It’s my home. But since the Germans came, it didn’t feel like it was mine anymore.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said. Then he thought that Aucoin couldn’t feel much like home to Delphine, either. It must have been hard to move away from everything you knew and leave all your friends behind. “Hey, do you want a cornichon?” he offered.

  She looked hesitant but finally took one. “Thanks,” she said. “I haven’t had one of these in a while.”

  The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Marcel picked up his lunch box.

  “Maybe you can come to
my house one day after school,” he said. He actually kind of liked her. She seemed so different from the other girls he knew. “We live above the bakery. My parents own it. I could help you with religion—” Her eyes narrowed until he added, “And you could help me with everything else!”

  She laughed. “Maybe I will. You seem pretty good at religion. Or maybe we can ride our bicycles together some time.”

  “Do you have a bicycle?” asked Marcel. A girl who liked to ride a bike? Now, that was really interesting.

  “It’s my brother’s. My mother doesn’t like me to use it.” She made a face. “But he’s away at school in London, so what’s the harm? Anyway, she doesn’t know, but I even rode it to school today.” Flipping her braids over her shoulders, she walked back to the classroom.

  Marcel followed close behind. When he sat down at his desk, he found a folded note on the seat. He opened it and read it quickly.

  Don’t forget about the bicycle race today! I hope you don’t chicken out because I’m going to win! I beat you at chess and I’ll beat you in a race, too!

  Marcel smiled. Arnaud liked to boast. Well, let him. Marcel wasn’t scared. He could beat Arnaud; he would beat him! He could almost hear his classmates’ cheers as he sailed across the finish line. Arnaud may have been the better chess player but Marcel was pretty sure he was the better cyclist.

  Thinking about the race made the afternoon drag. They had a science lesson and then music. Usually, music class concluded with the whole class singing “La Marseillaise,” which was the French national anthem. In the last two weeks, though, they had not sung it. Maybe the Occupation had something to do with that.

  But then the dismissal bell rang and Marcel’s focus instantly turned back to the race. He hastily stuffed his books into his satchel, picked up his empty lunch box, and went outside with all the other kids. Delphine was nowhere to be seen. But that didn’t matter—he went over to his bicycle and quickly pedaled to the appointed place near the church.

  Arnaud was already there, hands steadying his black bicycle. Guillaume and a bunch of other kids had turned up, too, laughing and jostling one another. The afternoon had warmed up even more. Marcel took off his jacket, wadded it up, and stuffed it into his bag.